Interview with Spike
by Laurie O
Summary: If you could dimension-hop to Buffyverse what would you ask Spike?


**HOME**

**Interview with Spike **

Spike sits slumped in his leather armchair smoking, drinking and watching Sex in the City. He must love all those conversations about anal sex and female orgasms. I squint nervously into his crypt, which is materialising in front of me. The place where he's seduced Buffy, and probably killed a few innocents. I don't know, I don't live in Buffyverse. But he does - here Spike lives. And many things cannot fit into those paltry 12 or even 22 episodes. I've been sent on a mission you see. 

As an aspiring fantasy writer, I was dutifully reading in my favourite writing manual about 'fantasyland trips' to meet characters; a method of clearing Writer's Block. Well, having written four laughably short paragraphs of the unimaginatively titled 'Spike's soul fanfic' I was ready to try anything. Obviously, polarising your psychic energy to render corporeal a fantasyland cannot be without risk, especially when it's a world of demons, monsters and superheros. It's a fairly simple procedure though, which they teach eleven year olds who have achieved a certain level of proficiency in english class. Writer's Block is treated as a very serious complaint. By resurrecting 'the trip' writing tutors play with fire, but they know what's important. A writer devoid of inspiration must do what she must to jump start the flow of words. It's about staying _truly_ alive at any cost. 

Anyway, it's not that dangerous. If someone is killed while maintaining a fantasy realm as physicality, they simply return to the real world and the fantasy bubble bursts. The only other way to end the illusion is to exhaust the curiosity which fuelled the metamorphosis of fiction to fact. So while I live in the dream and still have questions of Spike, he and his world are as substantial as you or I. Intriguingly, other trippers report that there appears to be a continuity for the fictional characters, as they remember visits from previous authors. 

As the murky crypt interior starts to take on substantiality, complete with musty, dank smellovision, I'm cursing my manual. It's one thing to pay Obiwan a call, but Spike?! What if he decides to break my leg? Or take me hostage and abuse me?….No, no wait I'm getting carried away here. He has a soul now remember. I try to reassure myself. Angel was far too crippled by guilt and remorse to even consider hurting anyone, he just wanted to make amends with everyone he met - even if they just materialised out of nowhere into his luxury crypt........ But Spike is not Angel, he's got a soul, but he's still Spike, and that's suddenly what bothers me. Perhaps I shoul''ve materialised outside and knocked? But then he could have just slammed the door in my face. Anyway it's too late to change my mind and I appear in Spike's crypt, recklessly terrified. 

I perch quietly on the centrally positioned stone coffin, to the side of Spike's vision, about ten feet away. He doesn't notice me. The bottle of Jack Daniels resting loosely in his fingers is nearly empty, so I guess his vampire senses are somewhat impaired. I shift slightly and prepare to speak. He must have caught the movement at the periphery of his vision because he whirls round, dragging the screeching chair with him. 

''What the fuck!'' 

''Oh, hello Spike, I hope you don't mind me popping in like this, I've just got a few questions I'd like to ask you.'' I try to sound casual, like a friend just calling round for Sunday lunch, but my voice comes out in a squeaky rush. 

He vacates the chair. ''Who the hell are you?'' he demands, swaying ever so slightly. 

He's not a big man, but his presence is overwhelming. The intensity of emotion playing over his startlingly defined features (even his face seems muscular) does nothing to calm my nerves. ''I'm a….'' I start to reply, but he interrupts. 

''Because if you're a vengeance demon then go ahead, do your worst! I don't care anymore.'' He raises the bottle to his wet lips and throws his head back in a dramatic gesture of defiance. This act of bravado is a bit much for his faltering sense of balance and he staggers back a step, before refocusing on me with piercing, animalistic eyes. 

''I'm not a vengeance demon Spike, although I can see why you would think that, what with the materialising and all, and me being a woman. What is it with women and vengeance anyway - aren't there any men wanting payback out there?'' I'm babbling now, but at least I've let him know I'm human, so he'd better not try any violence unless he wants one of those military-style headaches. 

I slide off the coffin and try to edge away. He's only seven feet away now; threatening despite his inebriated state. And if any manner of curse being imposed on him isn't worrying, then rational thinking must have drowned in Jack Daniels long ago. 

''So how do you materialise, and how do you know my name? - If you're just a poor, helpless female?'' He stalks effortlessly over to get a better look at me, smooth rolling movements revealing the muscular health of his dead body. 

''I'm just an aspiring writer from the physical reality - haven't you been visited before? I thought there would've been loads - especially girls……'' my explanation trails off and I turn red as I conclude that I've virtually admitted my extreme crush. He's close now, just a couple of feet away, and my heady mix of fear and attraction is making it hard to breathe. 

For a moment his eyes seem to soften, becoming infused with liquefying warmth, but then in a flash he grips hard fingers around my throat and slams me down on the coffin. 

I don't even try to struggle - to minimise injury - I just wait for the chip to kick in. I'm starting to choke and there's a peculiar bulging sensation in my eyes, like they're straining out of their sockets. I wait and I wait, until, scrambling furiously to prise his fingers off, I dimly register Spike's not even looking at me anymore, but talking to someone who's entered the vault. 

I'm released. I collapse to the cold, stone floor gasping, spitting and dribbling. My windpipe feels numb. I'm trembling uncontrollably and my back is bruised from it's close encounter with the coffin lid. Drained and blank I observe the newcomer chastise Spike. 

''Well, I didn't know'', Spike retorts. ''She materialises from nowhere and expects me to believe she's just a woman'' 

''Oh, so you didn't even give her a chance Spike? - and I thought you were in detox since……..'' Clem inclines his lumpy forehead slightly and widens his eyes, obviously referring to an event he's too tactful to mention in company. 

My mental faculties are returning andI glance covertly at Spike, silently listing the possible incidents. 

''C'mon give me the whisky buddy and I'll make us all some coffee, I've brought some midnight snacks!'' Clem smiles charmingly, but I can see he's stressed by the situation and concerned for his friend. Spike glowers at me, snatches at the door and deliberately tips the remaining drink onto the cemetery grass. Clem offers me a cellulite hand - which I accept - and helps me to the armchair. 

''There you go sweetie'', he soothes.

Spike sits on a low concrete bench opposite and lights a cigarette. Brow furrowed, elbows on knees he stares down at his booted feet while Clem minces gaily about making coffee and awkward-silence-filling comments. Once we all have a cup of strong, steaming hot coffee in our hands Clem addresses me brightly. 

''So luvvie you're a human?'' 

Before I can respond (I'm not even sure how well my voice is going to work after the crushing it just endured), Spike replies quietly. 

''She must be, no demon would be so easily hurt. Says she's a writer from the physical realm, knows my name and all'' 

''Ahhh….'' This is apparently extremely enlightening to Clem, and both Spike and I look at him hopefully. 

''You've heard of this?'' Spike enquires, lifting his head a little at last. 

''Oh sure, what's your name luvvie?'' 

Finally I'm able to speak up. ''Laurie, I'm Laurie and you're Clem.'' I'm pleased to find my voice box is in tact, if a little gravelly. 

''You know me!'' Clem excitedly performs rapid mini-claps, wobbling his jowly underarm flesh. ''I'm sorry, it's just no-one's ever recognised me before.'' He quickly reclaims his tacos, stuffing contentedly. 

Spike appears to be recovering from the alcohol, and leans back against the crypt wall, drawing one leg up indulgently to his body. ''So, what's the deal Clem?'' 

''Well it seems there's a dimension where only humans exist; no demons, and some people can access our reality through their mind/emotions. They even think they've watched us on TV! It's probably a hallucination brought on by the journey from their world to this. They are seeing into this dimension as they travel towards it, picking up names, events etc. Some of the stuff they know before they arrive is amazingly, but where the TV star thing comes in I don't know! All the same I've always wanted to be a starlet.'' With starry-eyes Clem continues to munch. The vampire looks amused and now observes me with some goodwill, lazily exhaling smoke in my direction. Relieved that I'm over the risky introductions and still in one piece, I sip my coffee whilst Clem's words rattle around in my dazed perception like a belt buckle in the washing machine; disturbing and potentially damaging. 

''Well, I'm sorry about the misunderstanding, luv, but you gave a chap a fright, appearing like that'' Spike offered. 

''Oh, that's quite alright,'' I croak, not sure I do forgive him, but the fact that he just called me ''luv'' devastated my ability to form a pithy comeback. I'm starting to feel under pressure for entirely different reasons, and I'm glad that Clem is there. 

''So you think we're like film stars then?'' the souled demon asks evenly. ''You some sort of groupie or something?'' 

''Oh, no'', I splutter ''I told you, I'm trying to be a writer. I wanted to talk to you so I could understand your character better. I'm writing a story about you, you see and I got Writers Block.'' Crimson. Again. 

Spike smirks shamelessly during this defence. Damn, he's even more good-looking in the flesh and I start to question my own motives. Hasn't that soul affected him at all? What about trying to rape Buffy? He's still dripping with that self-assured sexual charisma; so without arrogance. 

''Well I think we've all had enough excitement for one night'', Clem interjects ''and I think the young lady needs some rest.'' 

He spots my lips opening to protest and adds ''I'll be off home and Spike, you can answer questions tomorrow.'' Spike nods, agreeing to return to his old sleeping place on the coffin, whilst I have the luxury of his double bed. The ease with which he accepts this scenario makes me think the soul must've kicked in after all. The old Spike would never have been so helpful to a complete stranger who invaded his home; offering nothing, but expecting him to bare his soul when he hasn't even got used to having one. 

Without warning, Spike scoops me out of the chair and carries me to the bed, leaving a glass of water and some chips on the side table. I'm trembling again, the look of his neck, just a breath away, wreathed in wisps of peroxide seared in my memory. The feel of his arms around me tormenting. Even the sore red collar around my throat now seems vaguely erotic and I stroke it softly to remember his touch. I'm neither tired nor hungry now of course and later I hear him softly close the door and disappear out into the blackness that is vampire day. 

_________________________________________ 

After Spike leaves, I decide to investigate his crypt - I have come to research my character after all - what better way than snooping round his pad? Downstairs in the main living/bedroom area no sign of the fire used to destroy the demon eggs remains. At the foot of the double bed rests an ancient Chinese wooden chest, intricately carved with scenes of battle. Inside are many weapons; axes, swords, stakes and even some army issue guns and grenade launchers - momentos from Hostile 17's initiative days? To my relief I find blood in the fridge, indicating Spike's soul isn't that of a cannibalistic serial killer, delighted with it's new vampire fangs. 

He's not feeding, just surviving on pig's blood, as Angel had. In the wardrobe I discover 3 pairs of black jeans, 5 black T-shirts, 2 red shirts and one black top with long sleeves. Presumably he only possesses the one black, leather duster and pair of black boots. I rummage deeper into drawers, inexplicably melancholy at the sight of Buffy smiling up from battered prints. The soft, blue girl's cardigan must also belong to the Slayer, stolen from her house a couple of years ago. I carefully replace the items and, at last fatigued, sink back into bed, cocooning myself in blankets for comfort. 

As I drift into a numb sleep, even my light breathing seems to intrude on this place of death. Silence is a dead, dull thing here, like those ceaseless tick-tocking clocks in old-fashioned dining rooms. With nothing to wake me in the underground tomb I sleep on, late into the day, finally rousing to get some water to soothe my sore throat. Spike must have heard me because he calls down the stairway ''Oh, so you're awake. You can ask me questions now.'' he offers ungraciously. 

I slowly climb the steps to the ground floor level feeling schoolgirl shy. I'm suddenly reminded of what the tutor said about meeting your character like this; 'Remember, you're God in the universe you created, so be compassionate and generous of spirit'. Firstly I didn't exactly create this universe, Joss Whedon did, that's no doubt why it's so coherent and lifelike, and secondly I certainly don't feel like God or even in control here. Perhaps fantasyland trips are not such a good idea for fan fiction? Presumably most authors don't find their ability to communicate hampered by an embarrassing crush on their leading man. As inter-dimensional principles dictate I can only stay whilst I have questions I might as well get on with it before I make a complete fool of myself. 

With resolve set, I produce a notepad and pen and think 'journalist'. Spike indicates for me to sit, which I do on the stone bench, while he relaxes into leather upholstery and lights a cigarette. 

''Thank you for agreeing to talk to me Spike and I am sorry about intruding on you like this. Like I said I'm desperate to get some inspiration for a fan fiction based on events following Season 6.'' 

''Yeah, well Clem told me the way it works, and that the only way to get rid of you is to tell you what you want to know.'' 

''Oh'' I'm gutted by this remark. 

It must have shown because his voice softens. ''Besides I'm sorry for attacking you and our little chat will be quite confidential I know. Once you've got what you need, you'll go poof, back to the land where I'm a TV star'' he gives me a warm smile and straightens in an act of mock pride, puffing dramatically on his fag and illustrating my disappearance by quickly parting his palms. ''Anyway, Clem keeps saying I need a shrink, so I've nominated you - fire away.'' 

''Oh'', I say again. I'm Spike's therapist! Not quite my ideal role but an improvement on just being a big pain in his arse. I smile back. ''OK Spike, thank you. I'll start with 'What's it like having a soul?'" 

''No-one knows about that OK, only that bastard demon who gave it to me'' 

''But the writers said you did ask for the soul, _not_ as we were led to believe to have the chip removed - and by the way - how come that doesn't work anymore? I was relying on that to protect me'' I rub my reddened neck gingerly. 

''I don't know really, I think my having a soul has confused it's human/supernatural bearings. Just get a weird combination of mild pain and pleasure whoever or whatever I hit now. You're my first human guinea pig'' 

''Oh.'' (I seem to be saying that a lot) 

''It actually makes fighting quite sensual, even if it's one of those nasty chaos demons with slimy antlers - ugh'' he shudders. 

''I can really get off on it and I can't stand them'' 

''Oh.'' This ''Oh'' came out really surprised - I hadn't seen that coming. 

''So when I attacked you I figured the searing head pain would be back, or not, if you were a demon as I suspected. It's lucky Clem arrived when he did…..I don't need anything else to……'' he trailed off, twisting the fag butt into the dusty floor. His expression darkened like a passing storm. I could see I had to push him, and his obvious remorse over nearly throttling me was just about the only bargaining power I had. Well, that and not staying to blag him to death for all eternity. Hey, maybe I am a God in this world! 

''…anything else to feel guilty about now you have a soul, you mean?'' I suggest bluntly. 

He raises pained eyes and looks into me. ''Yeah, that's right.'' 

''What do you feel most guilty about?'' I ask. I'm on a roll now; in detached interrogation mode. What do I care, he's just a character on TV to me. 

His eyes gaze relentlessly on. ''Most guilty?'' he half laughs; a joyless sound. ''Do you want me to catalogue and assign scores?'' he growls in annoyance. ''Each moment was the worst to each poor sod who had the misfortune of making my acquaintance.'' Spike was on his feet ranting gutturally now, his face a mask of tension. Occasionally his demon features rippled into place, as if the memories summoned the beast. I watch horrified and enthralled, but not afraid. ''Murder, violence for pleasure, torture, intimidation, corruption. The more pure the victim, the more vile the act.'' He leans in, to give me a close up view of his vampire self, the one who delighted in pain and suffering. Grotesquely shocking, the eyes were a sickly yellow, with small, cruel black irises. Thickened forehead ridges rucked up above the nose and lengthened canines contorted Spike's voice into a subtle, malevolent lisp. ''It had a strange logic and beauty in my twisted mind, like painting pictures in shades of black and white…….almost poetic. Evil was right and necessary, a banner that it was my duty to uphold. Perversity was love - and I gave out some good lovin'. That demon thought I was a sorry excuse for a dark warrior, but I did alright, especially before them damn soldier boys neutered me.'' Still standing, he leant both arms onto the sarcophagus lid and returned to human visage. 

''What about Buffy and what happened in the bathroom?'' 

''Bloody hell, you people know everything! I…..I'' he falters, looking away ''What happened there was nothing compared to the previous 100 years - she got off lightly.'' He returns to the bench, his shoulders caving, resigned and alone. ''Buffy's so beautiful; a hero and a lady. But that damn chip spoilt a good, clean fight. My obsession with destroying her became twisted, even by demon standards, to a gross parody of human love. And so I seduced her, corrupted her, exploited her weakness as a young girl in need of love - just as I had watched Angelus do. Except I went one better than him, didn't I? I let the demon possess her body, made her crave it's lusting.''

I'm hushed by his confession. ''So you never loved her?'' I murmur. 

He smiles, and with all the wisdom of his 150 years replies, ''How can a demon love?'' 

''No, I guess not.'' Usually this question would be like a bell to a mud wrestler. I'd plough in for a dirty 10 round debate on a messageboard, but Spike's authenticity is beginning to break down my shield of interrogation, pungent leather and aftershave bridging the gap, piercing my heart and weakening my resolve. His presence, surrendered and peaceful now, is palpable and I wonder whether he possesses some of Dracula's hypnotic powers, as my thoughts drift away. Detachedly, I watch urgent questions fade into musty silence, until only the vision of his smouldering frame and swept-backed blonde hair remains. 

He seems to sense my mood swing and leaning forward asks quietly ''So what else do you want to know, Laurie?'' 

My name sounds so sweet on his lips. I realise I can't keep up this writer charade any longer. I must admit to myself that I haven't come on this trip for purely professional reasons. It is my turn to confess. ''Spike'' (it's beautiful to say his name), ''I thought I came, to research my story, and that is true to a degree, but now I'm here……..'' 

I'm feeling troubled now, I never thought he'd make me so vulnerable. How could I have underestimated him so, he's always had such a talent for seeing right into the heart of the matter. 

''What, luv?'' 

Unnerved I realise I'm his entire focus. Soul and suffering have given him a one-pointed depth of compassion. I start to cry, the strain of pretence just too much to bear. 

''Come here'', he says, pulling me onto the bench next to him, and I sob uncontrollably onto his infamous leather duster. Soothingly, he strokes my hair, without trace of sexuality. ''Hush pet'', he breathes. The old-fashioned English endearment is familiar to me. Years of pent up yearning and frustration seem to pour out, here in fantasyland, away from the daily grind and disappointment of the 'real' world. 

''I'm sorry'', I gasp feebly at last ''but I have to ask you something really embarrassing, otherwise I'll be bound to you forever - you remember what Clem explained about me having to ask you everything before I can go?'' Spike nods. It feels great not to be in denial any longer. ''Well, it's not a question really, more of a confession. You asked me if I'm a groupie? Well, truth is I am. I have a humungous great crush on you and that's a large part of why I'm here, and why I can't remember any of those intelligent, probing questions I swear I had all ready to ask'' 

This time it's his turn; ''Oh'' he says.

The relief of honesty washes over me. The energy that sustained the trip has been released. Minutely the scene recedes; Spike looks at me sharply, noticing the change. 

''No, don't go now'' he orders, searching the crypt with his gaze for the cause of this intrusion. The 'real' world is infusing me with a sense of drugged detachment and, as he grips my forearms as if to hold me here, I can't stop a broad grin blazing across my face. That he's enjoying our conversation enough to be annoyed at my imminent departure warms my soul. The peace I saw in him earlier, is now mine. 

''Goodbye, and goodluck - I'll be watching'', I say. 

He nods. 

Blissfully I lapse into unconsciousness, to awaken on my bedroom floor, the customary head splitter and muscle cramps unnoticed. 

**HOME**


End file.
